


Mend the Broken

by ChillsofFire



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Graphic Description of Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, blood mention, referenced crucifixtion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 11:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13902858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillsofFire/pseuds/ChillsofFire
Summary: Nasir tends to Agron after Crixus' funeral, and attempts to hold both of them together.





	Mend the Broken

Water, falling back into the bucket it was drawn from, squeezed from a rag turned dark from dirt and blood.

Crackling fire, cradled safely in the torch’s perch, casting a soft glow through the otherwise dark tent.

The only sounds to break the silence.

Nasir shifted on his feet, slowly and carefully rubbing the rag down a bruised and wounded arm. He watched as the water trickled away from the washing cloth, falling ahead of it as it ran down, down before beading at, and eventually falling from, a crooked elbow. It was a dull and muddy brown before it ever hit the ground.

He drew his gaze up, away from the cloth and water, to peer at his lover’s face.

Agron had not looked at him since they’d entered the tent. Not fully.

He had allowed Nasir to guide him, sit him down on an old chest, long stolen from a former slave masters home. He had voiced no complaint as Nasir undressed him, gentle and slow, the cloak that sat around his shoulders sliding to the ground at Nasir’s prompting. It had since been moved, pushed aside and out of the way, its blue threads turned black by the sparse light and dancing shadows.

Agron had allowed Nasir to do this, had said nothing when cloth and bucket had been produced, had sat still as Nasir tenderly drew the rag across his face, ever careful about the bruises, and down his neck and shoulders.

But he had not met Nasir’s gaze. Had not spoken a word.

He sat, silent and obedient, shifting to match Nasir’s desires, and stared, with blank, almost unseeing eyes, at his hands, sitting across his thighs, still wrapped in bloodied bandages.

Nasir swallowed. He was almost unable to look at them.

So he didn’t. Instead he forced his attention elsewhere, washing and scrubbing and massaging at Agron’s skin until it shone, clean of dirt and debris. He could do nothing for the bruises and cuts, a thought that threatened to burn his eyes with barely restrained tears.

The wounds on Agron’s body had never frightened him like this before.

Slowly, steadily, Nasir worked. The rag lifted filth from face and neck, shoulders and back, arms and chest, and Nasir kept eyes away from the wounds Agron could not look away from.

He could not, however, keep them from the gash on Agron’s left side. The wound, crudely sealed by hot steel, glared at Nasir as if to taunt him. How close had he come to losing Agron by sword alone?

_Very close._ The wound seemed to say.

_Too close._ Nasir replied.

He forced himself to move on.

It was not until the end, after hips and legs and feet had been scrubbed and cleaned, that Nasir turned his attention to what haunted him most.

The cloth used to bandage Agron’s hands had been given by the Romans before his release. It was obviously unwanted scrap, and was as covered with blood and dirt as Agron had been. Nasir had wanted to change them as soon as he’d laid eyes on them, but Agron had refused to let him before the funeral. Now that the opportunity was there, Nasir found himself almost unable to touch them. He did not want to see what lay beneath.

But he had to. He had to be strong, for himself, and for Agron.

Agron started when Nasir’s fingers began to drift past his wrists, toward the bandages wound tight around his hands. Automatically, instinctively, he moved to pull them away, hide them where Nasir could not see.

He stilled when Nasir, quick as ever, captured one injured hand between both of his own, careful not to press against the wounds. His grip was light, tender, but firm. When he reached for the ends of the cloth, Agron did not stop him.

Both men seemed to hold their breath as the soiled bandages were removed, slowly pulled from the flesh they bound and dropped to the floor of the tent. Not a word was spoken. The air seemed to still. Even the torch seemed to freeze for a moment.

Nasir exhaled all at once, his heart hammering too hard against his ribs to allow him to hold any air.

Blood colored Agron’s palms, smeared from movement and the drag of the cloth, leaving no inch untouched. It was dried closer to the outside of his hands, forming streaks that were almost brown. The layers thickened toward the center, turning darker and darker until the blood became black and crusted, dried in large clots that outlined the source of the bleeding.

The holes were large, the edges torn and ragged where skin had ripped under the assault of nails. Despite his better judgement, Nasir could not help but peer down into them, inhaling deeply to stop himself from shaking.

Muscle and tendon, though shredded and parted upon being impaled, stopped any from seeing fully through the wounds. Nasir could see more dark clots of blood, slowly building up to stop the holes from spilling their crimson tears. Bits of white, small fragmented shards of bone, shone in the little bit of light that reached them.

Nasir brushed the tips of his fingers over the heel of Agron’s palm, his touch feather light. He swallowed around the lump forming in his throat and looked up, eyes immediately finding Agron’s.

Agron was still staring at his hands, unable to tear his gaze away from his injured flesh. But his face had changed. His gaze was no longer distant and empty; now it was pointed, locked on the gruesome wounds, and filled with pain. Tears were slowly welling in his eyes, turning them to glass.

Nasir did not need to ask to know what he was thinking.

_All those who are able._

Spartacus’ voice thundered through his head, the words cutting into his heart like freshly whetted blades.

Agron’s bottom lip trembled ever so slightly.

_They may yet heal._ Nasir wanted to say, knowing he would be speaking lies.

Or would he? Many of their people had suffered wounds, deep and disfiguring and life threatening, yet they still walked and fought among them.

_Crixus_ , Nasir’s mind whispered. He had heard the stories of his battle against Theokoles. Many had thought him dead, and yet he had lived, he had thrived, had gone on to kill many Romans and free frightened slaves from their hold. Crixus’ had recovered, Crixus had lived…

But Nasir could not bring himself to speak words of comfort. Not when his thoughts so suddenly turned sour.

He did not see Crixus, the gladiator, the warrior, the leader. Now he saw only Crixus, the bodiless head, the remains, the burning image that they had, not so long ago, stood before.

Crixus had fallen in battle, a battle that had ended with Agron nailed to cross, left to die a slow and painful death for Roman amusement.

And it was that image that broke him.

Tears sprung to his eyes, blinding him, but not stopping him as he shot up, hand reaching to curl around the back of Agron’s neck as he pressed their foreheads together. Agron started, caught off guard by the sudden movement, and finally, _finally,_ moved to meet Nasir’s gaze.

Nasir blinked, attempting to hold back his tears as he looked deep into Agron’s eyes, his hand trembling against his skin.

_He lives_ , Nasir swallowed again, attempting to loosen the knot in his chest. He repeated the words, hoping to chase the image of Agron in Roman hands from his mind, _He lives…_

Agron was watching him, watching the way his lower lip shook as Nasir tried vainly to give a reassuring smile, watching Nasir watch him, and when he felt the trembling at the back of his neck, Agron attempted to reach for him, his own pain vanishing for a moment as his desire to comfort Nasir swelled.

His lips parted in a small cry, his body jerking back in Nasir’s hold as agony gripped his hands. He’d attempted to curl them around Nasir’s hips, attempted to hold his lover as he had so many times before. But he could not. Not now.

Shame and anger, pain and fear, all gripped at Agron’s heart as he drew his hands in against his chest, holding them to his own body as his head bowed forward, jaw clenched tightly as hot tears began to roll down his cheeks.

“Agron…” It was the first word spoken since they had retired to their tent, and Nasir hated how his voice trembled. He could not hide his worry, the helplessness he felt, no matter how hard he tried.

“I cannot hold you,” Agron’s ragged voice was barely a whisper, “I cannot fight…” his words broke off, and Nasir’s heart broke with them.

He pulled Agron forward as he stood to his full height, cradling his lover’s head against his stomach. A lone tear began to slide down his face. Nasir closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.

“You are stronger than those Roman shits,” He murmured, and this time his voice was steady, “You survived, when so many others would have fallen.”

Nasir swallowed, steeling himself, before shifting to cup Agron’s face between his hands, tilting his head back so he could look him in the eyes again.

“You are a warrior,” his words were firm, “and always shall be. They cannot take that from you. You cannot let them.” He drew his thumb over Agron’s cheek, tender and loving.

“Let us tend to your wounds,” and though Nasir’s voice was soft, they left no room for argument, “let us see you well rested this night. When morning breaks, we will see you fed.”

Agron swallowed, a few stray tears continuing to fall from his lashes as he watched his lover.

Nasir did not look away from him. Even as he bent forward to press their lips together in a soft and desperate kiss that tasted of salt.

“Do not think yourself a burden,” he murmured, “you live. That is all that matters now.”

And he meant it. In that moment, Nasir wanted to cast all thoughts of the Romans, the rebellion, and the upcoming battles out of his mind. Agron was alive, his heart had returned to him, and that was all he wanted to be concerned with.

Agron exhaled in a great shuddering breath and gave a small, jerking nod. Nasir pressed their foreheads together again, both of their eyes sliding closed as they took the quiet moment to gather themselves.

Then there was silence once more, and Nasir set himself to task, gently but thoroughly cleansing Agron’s injuries with careful, sure hands. Agron watched him, his eyes on the top of Nasir’s head rather than the wounds being tended.

“I may never be able to grasp sword again…” Agron spoke softly just as Nasir was finishing tying clean bandages around his palms.

Nasir paused, his eyes still trained on the knot he’d just made. He took a slow breath, then looked up to meet Agron’s gaze, his eyes determined and strong.

“You will be no less dangerous without it.”

He rose to his feet once more, fingers curling around Agron’s wrists in a firm but tender hold.

“Come.”

Agron allowed himself to be pulled up and guided to their bed. Allowed Nasir to lay him down. He watched as Nasir stripped and readied himself for bed, quiet once more. Nasir slipped beneath the blanket beside him, and they rearranged themselves until they were both on their sides, Agron’s face cradled to Nasir’s chest.

Nasir held him close, stroking his fingers soothingly through Agron’s hair, his eyes staring through the wall of their tent as Agron slipped into sleep, too exhausted to attempt to stay awake. But sleep would not come to him.

His hand was beginning to tremble, but Nasir forced it still, forced himself to breathe and focus on the man lying in his arms once more. He had thought Agron dead, never to return to his side. Yet here he was, breath warm against his skin, heart beating beside his.

Nasir swallowed quietly, lowering his head to press his lips against Agron’s hair. His heart had returned; weakened, but back where he belonged.

_He will regain strength._ Nasir would see to that. He would ensure that Agron rested, that his wounds were cared for. They had already been parted once; he would not allow it to happen again. And when the time came, they would make the Romans pay for their crimes.

Together.


End file.
